


What's in a Name

by Russica



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angry Sex, Greg is mad, I wanted PWP, M/M, Mycroft is Nosy, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock deletes Gregs name, Sort of plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-16
Updated: 2018-05-16
Packaged: 2019-05-07 19:33:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14677949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Russica/pseuds/Russica
Summary: Alternate title: "Why Sherlock calls him Gavin."Mycroft meddles, Greg is mad, Sherlock is definitely in the wrong place at the wrong time. Gratuitous, semi-angry sex in Mycroft's home office.





	What's in a Name

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, first Mystrade fic I've posted (though I have a few more on the back burner). Not betad not brit-picked, still hope everyone enjoys. 
> 
> I'll keep the important notes brief: set sometime before SiP, Mycroft and Greg meet fairly often to discuss Sherlock, Mycroft POV uses Gregory Greg POV uses Greg of course, so don't be startled by the shift.

Mycroft Holmes sat in his home office, idly reading over some of his more bland work, when his phone began to ring. He peered over his reading glasses at the caller ID and frowned; G. Lestrade shone up from the screen as it continued to ring. He sighed before picking it up, ignoring the good Sergeant- scratch that- ignoring the good _Detective Inspector_ , was a pointless endeavor.

"Gregory to-"

 

"Shut it, Mycroft, and let me in."

 

Mycroft pursed his lips, annoyed with being interrupted. "What ever do you mean Gregory."

 

"I'm at your door you posh git, let me in."

 

Oh dear. The thought settled hard in his head as he removed his glasses before heading to the window and pulling the curtains aside. At his door stood Gregory, glaring resolutely at said door as if it had done him a personal injustice.

 

"Why, pray tell, are you at my residence Gregory?"

 

"Because Anthea said you weren't at your club and had me brought here when I threatened to tell Sherlock about our little meetings."

 

Such underhanded tactics Gregory, but it's not as if Sherlock doesn't know already.

 

"And I know he doesn't know we meet because he's deduced what he calls 'bad dates with an idiot' more than once." Greg looked up as Mycroft stepped back. "Now let me in."

 

Mycroft sighed and swore to give Sherlock a verbal lashing for attempting to out him as he returned to his desk and pressed a few keys on a small panel in the first drawer. "Very well, up the stairs last room on the right. Do hurry up, I am quite busy Gregory."

 

He ended the call before the other man could reply. After a moment he heard his front door slam shut, unnecessary really. Why Gregory insisted upon such garish displays when upset was ridiculous. He poured two snifters of brandy and placed them on either side of his desk before sitting down. He could hear Gregory practically stomping up the stairs, his hard foot falls started up an anxious fluttering in Mycroft's stomach. He noticed his fingers tapping almost impatiently and felt himself fidgeting slightly in his seat. Honestly, he was acting like a child. It's only Gregory. Oh but if that wasn't the crux of the problem.

 

He forced himself to still as Greg threw open his door and slammed it shut. He frowned as Greg stood resolutely behind the chair across from him and glared. Inwardly he was fighting down a base arousal at the sight of the enraged man.

 

"Gregory. If you are quite done abusing my house, you may sit and tell me what has you so perturbed."

 

Greg narrowed his eyes but did take a seat. He ignored the brandy and leaned back in the plush chair. Mycroft quickly took him in. He was wearing one of his 'court' suits, a black one with no tie, most likely tossed off before beginning his war path, finger mussed hair, he'd broken his recent non smoking streak, he'd had the decency to abandon his shoes in the foyer.

 

"How long have we known each other Mycroft?"

 

Mycroft steepled his fingers, leaning forward slightly as he focused on tired brown eyes. "Four years."

 

"And how many times have I helped Sherlock?"

 

"More times than I could accurately count."

 

Only a minor lie, he needn't know about the 'Gregory Lestrade' folder he kept up to date, or about the tally within said folder.

 

"How many times have I asked for anything benefiting myself?"

 

"Once." A niggling feeling began to worm its way into Mycroft's mind.

 

"And what was that?"

 

"...Assistance in moving your divorce along." Niggling intensifying.

 

"Right. So knowing that..." Greg stood and planted his hands on Mycroft's desk, glowering down at the younger man. "What in gods name made you think getting me promoted to DI was something I wanted?"

 

Mycroft felt the shiver run down his spine at that low, threatening, growl sent his way. The niggling feeling became the realization that a dressing down by this particular man would not be easy to sit through with his usual icy veneer. He met angry brown eyes with a practised, yet forced, ease, but felt his face burning under their fury despite it. He could try to lie, say he had nothing to do with it, but Gregory somehow always knew when he was lying. It was disconcerting really, that his facade fooled diplomats and dictators alike yet was utterly useless against the now Detective Inspector.

 

"I merely mentioned your name to the right people Gregory. That they promoted you was entirely their decision."

 

"That's it, eh?"

 

"Yes."

 

Mycroft sipped his brandy, suddenly needing a distraction from the virile man in front of him. The half truth left a bitter taste in his mouth.

 

"I don't appreciate you meddling."

 

Mycroft didn't answer as he took another small sip. Perhaps for once Gregory would take his silence for what it was and leave.

 

"Damn it Mycroft!"

 

The sudden shout made Mycroft jump, his icy blue eyes going wide and all blood flow diverting south. Gregory had reached out and caught him by the tie, pulling him slightly across the table. He was surely going to faint at the lack of blood to his brain and the tantalizing musk of cheap cologne and sweat was overloading his ability to think clearly.

 

"I am so sick of you thinking you can meddle with my job! I told you the first time I got promoted not to do it again. Are you Holmeses so thick headed you can't follow simple instructions?"

 

Mycroft forced himself to sit his glass down before he dropped it, his fingers trembling minutely. His face was burning and he knew his eyes must be reflecting his inner desires despite his usual ability to keep that sort of thing under wraps. Gregory was so angry, his dark brown eyes were a storm of emotion. He had a much more intimate view of messy brown hair, prematurely greying in the most flattering way, and tempting lips set in a firm line. The flash of a tongue darting out to wet said lips had Mycroft thinking on how he would gladly let them devour him.

 

For all Sherlock bemoaned him, Greg was actually a brilliant detective by most standards. Sure, he was nowhere close to the Holmesian sort of intellect, but he could hold his own. In this case, however, it didn't take a brilliant detective, hell it didn't take an idiot, to see the desire plainly written across Mycroft's face. The deep red flush from his collar to his hairline, the halo of blue surrounding blown pupils, the way his lips parted ever so slightly. Greg felt his stomach flip at such an open display.

 

Greg made his way resolutely around the large desk, never letting go of Mycroft's tie. He pressed the man back into his chair and chased him with his lips. Their kiss was hard and desperate and so imperfectly perfect. There were no fireworks or sudden realizations, but Greg's anger and Mycroft's need still mixed into the best kind of desperation. Teeth and tongues intermingled as long pale fingers worked eagerly through greying hair, tugging the strands gently. Greg broke their kiss but remained close enough that their lips brushed as they panted.

 

"I'm going to bend you over your desk and fuck you senseless. Just to show you I can."

 

Mycroft's eyes were half lidded as he managed to nod at the obscene statement.

 

"And I'm going to be all you can think about every time you try to sit without wincing."

 

The low moan Mycroft let out was more than enough to urge Greg on. He made quick work of Mycroft's jacket and waistcoat, shoving them to the floor and running his hands down the soft fabric of his shirt. Mycroft had removed his cufflinks and tie as Greg threw his own jacket to the floor, their lips never breaking contact. Before Mycroft knew it they were both divested of their upper clothing and Gregory was down to only his pants. He'd have to figure out how that had happened later, _much_ later. When Greg dropped to his knees and began undoing his trousers, Mycroft let his head fall back and his eyes slip shut. His respite lasted only a moment, Gregory worked very fast, another note to review later, and he was completely stripped and pulled from his chair. He cried out as Greg sucked hard mark over his collarbone before swiftly spinning him and shoving him down on his desk.

 

"Condoms?"

 

"Third drawer."

 

Greg raised an eyebrow as he opened said drawer. Inside was an unopened box of condoms and a tube of lube. Greg didn't think on it, hoping he'd remember to ask later, and quickly lubed his fingers. He pressed a slick digit to Mycroft's tight entrance and was surprised when his hips pressed back eagerly.

 

"Oy, you're not in charge" he smirked as his free hand smacked against Mycroft's pale thigh.

 

Mycroft groaned. Greg took his time, feeling Mycroft shudder as he very slowly worked him open. By the time he'd gotten to 3 fingers Mycroft was shaking and mumbling out a soft stream of nonsense and vague pleas. Greg slid on the condom with his free hand before removing his fingers. He coated himself with more lube as he slowly pressed. Mycroft gasped and Greg moaned as the head of his prick breached Mycroft's tight entrance. His fingers rubbed small circles over Mycroft's hips as he slowly worked himself in, determined to make his point without outright hurting the eager man.

 

"God Mycroft, so fucking tight."

 

Mycroft's knuckles were turning white with the strain of holding on too tightly to his desk. He gasped as his eyes clenched shut, his forehead pressing into the polished oak. Fingers dug into his hips hard enough to bruise, he privately hoped they did.

 

Greg was finally, gloriously, seated fully and the two men panted with the exertion of holding back. Greg worked him slowly, shallow thrusts pooling heat in Mycroft's stomach.

 

"Gregory, I- more."

 

A solid hand gripped his shoulder and pulled him back a touch harder. He didn't try to stop the obscene moan that left his mouth. Greg leaned down to bite the shoulder he wasn't gripping, sucking hard and marking the pale skin. The man arched his back and Greg swore he heard a soft plea for even more. He raked his blunt nails down creamy white skin and Mycroft threw his head back, and cried out a stream of words Greg didn't recognize.

 

"You like it rough. God if that's not a fucking turn on."

 

"God, yes. Please. Harder Gregory, please."

 

Mycroft was too far lost in unmitigated pleasure to care that he was reduced to begging for more. Greg pulled the man back hard, pressing into him at a stronger pace, but still careful, still not wanting to hurt the man on their first go. The way Mycroft cried out his name was almost enough to tip Greg over the edge, but he refused to get off first, not really a good show of command. One hand continuing to force Mycroft back, his other twisted into red tinted hair. Mycroft's head bent back, bearing his throat as he panted. Greg wished he could mar that pretty line of skin.

 

"Next time. I'm going to mark every inch of your skin." Greg's voice was husky and low.

 

Mycroft's eyes slipped shut as the heat began to boil in his stomach.

 

"Everyone will know you're mine."

 

Greg adjusted ever so slightly, his cock finally finding Mycroft's sweet spot, the younger man tensing and crying out. Somewhere in the pleasure haze Mycroft's mind ran the word on repeat:  _mine._   _Mine._   _Mine._

 

"You're mine. And you're going to cum for me."

 

Mycroft found his mind shutting down as Greg's cock found his prostate on each firm thrust. The sweet pleasure mixed with pain as fingers pulled his hair harder. He screamed Greg's name as he came, his untouched cock painting the underside of his desk with strip after strip of cum. Greg found both hands on Mycroft's shoulders, pulling him back repeatedly as he fucked him through his orgasm. The tightening heat was finally, blissfully, ~~_oh God I'm ruined on sex,_~~ too much and Greg found his own orgasm rip through him.

 

The room was filled with the sound of the two men panting. Mycroft felt is legs give way and found himself falling bodily, and inelegantly, to the desk beneath him. He groaned as his fingers finally released their death grip on the edge. Greg smiled as he took in dark marks on Mycroft's shoulders and his hands soothed down over angry red scratches; he'd be feeling those later. He took in the freckles peppered across Mycroft's skin and vowed to map every one of them next time. Finally, he pulled out slowly, removed and knotted the condom before tossing it in the bin nearby.

 

Mycroft hadn't moved, it appeared his ever running brain had momentarily shut down. Greg liked it. He carefully pulled Mycroft off his desk and led him over to the sofa. He recalled laughing at how ridiculously large the thing was but was rather glad at the moment.

 

"Blanket?"

 

Greg knew that if Mycroft were anything like Sherlock, he'd still be able to respond to simple things while his mind rebooted. A shakey hand waved to the ensuite. Greg kissed him lightly on the forehead before moving off. He found several fluffy blankets in the ensuite closet and made note that the shower was definitely big enough for two before returning to his tired lover... Lover. Greg paused to take in the debauched man half asleep on the couch. He could picture quite nights in and bad movies and waking up to mussed Auburn hair...

 

Greg smiled as he shook free of his musings and settled on the couch. He gently pulled the unresponsive man over top him, wrapping him securely in his arms before throwing the blanket over them both. Mycroft nuzzled into Greg's chest.

 

"God you're a cuddler too, I've died and gone to heaven."

 

Mycroft smiled sleepily as his eyes slipped shut. Greg kissed his forehead again and let himself relax into sleep as well. 

* * *

 

Outside the study: a certain lanky, curly haired, Consulting Detective, stared wide eyed at the door in front of him. He could risk opening the door and see what he already knew was waiting, his brother, and  _his_ Detective Inspector, in a disgusting post coital pile, most likely on the ridiculous sofa. Instead, he promptly turned heel and began deleting every iota of memory for what had happened. He would simply have to confront Gavin about his lack of cases later.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope it was everything you expected my dears, if you see any mess ups, let me know. Thanks for reading please comment, I live for them!
> 
> P.S. They were a rather crude gift from Sherlock, accompanying 'stick up your arse' joke written on a lovely card.


End file.
